The Weight of the World
by pantyslime
Summary: Daxter has something important to get off his chest: the truth. (Jaxter implied)


**Prologue**

 _Life is like a painting._

 _Most start blank._

Everyone from Haven to Spargus knew how much Daxter loved exaggerating his heroic tales, especially ones that perpetuated his good image. It didn't matter if the details were muddy as his boots, as long as the story sounded _awesome._ Most people he talked to were smart enough not to believe a word he said, but they were still entertaining stories to listen to and their lighthearted scoffs didn't stop him from telling the most farfetched stories that anyone in Haven had ever heard.

He was particularly proud of the stories that weren't _totally_ lies, because it was easier to stretch the truth when there was already some truth to work with. Had he and Jak blown up five eco wells in two minutes? Of course not! Daxter _himself_ had blown up _ten_ eco wells in _one_ minute! Did he and Jak have to capture five scouts in Haven Forest using nothing but a jetboard? Don't be silly! Daxter, once again in an act of pure selflessness, volunteered to run _on paw_ to all _ten_ scouts while Jak stayed behind, not worrying one golden hair on his head about scuffing his shiny new jetboard.

It was almost a tradition. "Truthful" stories were definitely more fun to tell, but none were complete without the playful albeit sharp slap from Jak to the back of Daxter's head. And he could proudly admit that he hadn't taken a single word of any of it back. He would swear to this day that there were _definitely,_ at _least_ eighty camouflaged metalheads in that forest, and of _course_ Daxter had shot them all dead as soon as Jak threw his gun down in fear and ran away.

He stuck by all of his stories with the loyalty of a baby crocadog.

All but one.

Daxter could only hear his heart pounding in his ears and the thumping of his boots on the uneven pavement. He followed closely behind Jak, leaving the smoking flyer they'd borrowed for the day behind them toward the mouth of the hidden alley. Daxter felt absolutely disgusting—he was coated with a layer of sweat, grime, and filth and he _stank_. Worst of all, it had been hours since his last meal, and while not life-threatening, it did make him cranky. Toss all that in with a bad case of nerves and you had the perfect recipe for one very cross twenty-year-old.

His eyes trailed up from the blur of rough concrete to the back of his best friend's head, stopping on a tuft of smooth, emerald hair. Three days of running around in the hot desert and the filthy sewers looking for more Precursor crap for Kleiver, _without sleep!_ , and Jak still managed to come out looking damn good. Hell, he even smelled good, too. It wasn't fair. In his opinion, Daxter looked just as disgusting as he felt. 'Specially when a bombshell like Jak always stood two feet away from him. Daxter had half the muscle and about twice as much mouth as Jak had, bags under his eyes, and a round baby face covered in ugly freckles that only a mother could love. That is, if he'd even known his mother. Maybe she wouldn't have even loved him then. And he wouldn't have blamed her.

He was so busy thinking about the last three days and how nice sleep and a hot meal would be that he didn't notice when Jak had stopped walking and nearly collided into his backside. They had arrived at the door to their "temporary" safehouse that the Underground had provided them a few days after they'd made it back into Haven. At one point, Torn had promised he would eventually find them a better place, but two and a half years later and the ex-Krimzon Guard was "still looking." Asshole.

"Toss me the key, would'ja, Dax?"

Daxter looked up then and noticed the tired yet patient smile gracing Jak's lips. Four years since they first began their perilous adventure in Haven City, and Jak was still as warm and kind to him as he had been when they were just kids. Daxter felt he didn't deserve it. Jak had every right to bark orders at him and treat him like the dirt he was, especially after Daxter had abandoned him when he needed him most—but there he was. Smiling that ultraJak smile, giving him that look, calmly waiting for the key.

"Oh, uh. Yeah. Gimme a sec," Daxter stammered, patting himself down for the worn key they had tossed back and forth for two years. He kept a lot of random junk in his small leather pouch, mostly useless trinkets he found lying around. A rusty bolt here, a broken pencil there, a tattered slip of paper…aha! The key! He smiled triumphantly and held it up for Jak to see before quickly tossing it towards him.

Without missing a beat, Jak closed his hand around it in midair and playfully stuck his tongue out, fitting the key into the lock. Daxter laughed, relieved that Jak was in a good mood, but it didn't make him any less anxious than he already was. A pressure had been building in his chest for a while now, and the only method to get rid of it wasn't one Daxter was quite familiar with: telling the truth.

Though they had been promised a better home they knew they'd never get, the boys didn't mind their rickety hut at all and had actually grown quite attached to it. There was a central pit with a fireplace in the middle that they used for both cooking and sleeping, and enough space all around it to toss aside any Precursor tech and weaponry they came across. They'd even coated the walls with a thin layer of mint green paint ("To remind us of better days," Jak had said), but the color only depressed Daxter now. It made his task that much more daunting, and he scrubbed a hand over his face as he sat down in the pit.

How was he supposed to tell Jak that he'd lied about the two years they'd spent away from each other?

It wouldn't have been so bad if the story he originally told hadn't been so _off_ in the first place _._ There were many elements of truth behind that explanation, sure, but…they were kind of out of order. And they didn't really happen under the circumstances Daxter had made up. In fact, the whole thing was more of a melting pot of the pieces of the two years he'd spent away from Jak. After abandoning him…

Jak was seated in his usual spot on the other side of the fireplace now, rolling his head from side to side to get a good stretch. He looked so tired, maybe it would be better to tell him tomorrow—

 _No_ , Daxter scolded himself. _You owe him the truth. It can't wait anymore._

It was now or never.

"Jak," he blurted, "I gotta get somethin' off my chest."

Jak's ears perked, as he had seen this coming. There were only a few times Daxter had acted like he did in the alley just moments ago. Head down, mouth shut, a heavy aura of tension in the air. It was like Misty Island all over again, and Jak got the same feeling in his gut now as when he thought about that awful day. If they'd just listened to Samos… maybe Daxter wouldn't have ever become an ottsel in the first place, and they wouldn't have had to find another way to change him back. Jak was happy as hell that he was finally human again, sure, but it should never have been an issue at all.

It had been silent since Daxter admitted there was something he needed to say. Jak broke the silence. "What's wrong?"

Daxter winced, guilt flooding through him. Why did Jak always have to be so concerned about him? Why did he have to be such a goddamn good friend?

Why couldn't Daxter return the favor until it was too late?

"I, uh…" He gulped down the lump in his throat and exhaled. "Ya remember that story I told in the bar, that night we all got really wasted?" That story was told _years_ ago—there had been plenty of drunken nights since then. Dax specified. "About what I did those two years I…was lookin' for you?" Those particular words felt wrong to say for multiple reasons, but the subject wasn't exactly an easy one to approach and he couldn't bring himself to _say_ the word prison. _Those two years. The ones ya spent getting' tortured, those two years we din't know where each other was, those two fuckin' years I_ abandoned _you. Ya remember 'em?'Cuz I sure do._

He refused to look at Jak, ashamed about what he was about to own up to—and there was a lot. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he was scared. Maybe he was afraid that Jak would be mad, or that he would lash out at him. Or maybe Jak would be hurt and would never trust Daxter again, and Daxter couldn't stand that. Or maybe he wouldn't give a shit and he'd just laugh it all off, which would be embarrassing, but it might be okay. Still, he didn't want that, either.

He played with a loose thread on one of his gloves, focusing on it rather than the balloon swelling in his chest. "It was all crap."

And then Jak did something that made the redhead's heart sink straight down into his stomach.

The blond plopped right down next to him and gave him his full attention, not saying a thing.

Daxter's eyes closed and his brow furrowed. He had never disassembled any of his stories for anyone before, not even the most obnoxiously fabricated ones. But for Jak, he would. He had to, or he would never forgive himself, much less expect any forgiveness from Jak. Good ol' Jak, who'd befriended him almost immediately when they met back in Sandover. Wonderful Jak, who'd taken him into his own hut on more rainy nights, feeding him and keeping him warm, than he could count. Glorious Jak, who would never in a million years toss his best friend under the bus, leaving him there to shatter and pick up the pieces all by himself.

"There was no Kridder Ridder Extermination," Daxter said quietly, "but there was an Osmo. And a Ximon. And plenty of bug fighting." He ducked his head lower and willed himself to tell the truth. The entire truth. "Well…sorta…"

He waited for a response from Jak, but nothing came. It was that Sandover silence again, and it killed Daxter. He wanted to risk a glance at the big guy, but he felt a gentle hand on his back before he could. The simple touch comforted him, and he knew that Jak was listening. He always listened to Daxter, no matter how trivial, and he couldn't be more grateful to Jak or ashamed of himself.

He'd needed to get this off his chest for months now, but they had just been so damn _busy_. Jak would get called in, his muscle and expert military planning necessary to complete an assignment; Daxter would get pulled away for repair work or espionage; and before you knew it, they were both passed out on the floor, curled up under thin blankets in their hut before Daxter could even hint at what had been bothering him. Up until now, those things had been more important than bothering Jak with the truth, but he could no longer stand it.

Daxter sighed one last time and slumped his shoulders, head hanging low. He supposed he should probably start his story from the beginning, for real this time.

"I thought you were behind me."


End file.
